


Do We Burn Bright

by SilverSiren1101



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Height Differences, Hurt/Comfort, Praise Kink, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-05 21:12:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17926454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverSiren1101/pseuds/SilverSiren1101
Summary: Sanga of the Dotharl left everything she knew, taking her Yol and fleeing her homelands before crash landing in exhaustion outside the unwelcoming gates of Ul'dah. Now, she's somehow been declared the savior of these people, their "Warrior of Light", all because of this mysterious Echo that sent her running away from home in the first place.But Sanga isn't a hero. She didn't get into this for the altruism. All she wants is a good fight, anything to make her soul burn brighter than it's ever been even if it means slaying literal gods and opposing the Empire itself. It's only then, during a fated encounter with a certain scarlet-armored Garlean in the heart of the Praetorium, that events are set in motion that change for her what it truly means for her soul to ignite.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And now for something completely different from my main fics... here's some FFXIV! I love Nero in all his arrogant jackass glory, so here he is with a feisty Dotharl Warrior of Light.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance encounter, highlighted by most striking crimson. A splash of blood. A swathe of gleaming armor. A ring of abyssal fire. 
> 
> It's their first of many more yet, and the start of something only the mother crystal herself could've preordained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to try something completely different! Never written for FFXIV before, but I've been playing since it was just ARR so I don't see why I haven't! I love Nero in all his asshole glory, and I'm going to enjoy annoying him greatly.
> 
> For my first time readers, please know I have a tumblr you can always come interact with me at! It's https://silversiren1101.tumblr.com/ and I love chatting with you guys. Anything about headcanons or even if you have a cool idea or prompt, I'd love to hear it.

Nero tol Scaeva, esteemed tribunus of the XIVth, though highly educated and renowned for his genius and accomplishments both, is not what others would call a “cultured” man.

Born in the middle of shite-filled _nowhere_ rural Garlemald, Nero’s spent his entire life striving for _greater_. Greater than those around him, greater than those that came before him, or even greater than he himself was but a moment prior; the who and when and where are irrelevant.

Greater is what he strives to be, so greater is what he _is_ and _will_ become.

And it’s all been thanks to his genius. Or, well, his genius  _and_ magitek.

Outside of whatever lab or thrice-cursed Allagan digsite he’s found himself in, the world beyond his obsession with the such technology has interested him little. Devoting time to knowing of cultures or peoples or Hells-forbid _politics_ is naught but time wasted. It’s all worthless drivel that only serves to take up precious space in his mind that would be better occupied by schematics or important project data.

Unsurprising to no one, then, that an uncultured, unworldly Garlean pureblood like the Tribunus has never before met an _Au Ra._ Not when their homelands have yet to be conquered and assimilated into the Empire’s fold; their territory having precious little to offer besides an overabundance of tribal savagery.

That’s not to say Nero doesn’t know _of_ the Au Ra, though he’d be the first to tell you his knowledge is merely cursory. Beyond having draconic features and supposedly extreme sexual dimorphism, he can’t tell you much else about them. An Oronir may as well be the same as a Mol in his eyes, with little difference between them and their ivory-scaled Raen cousins. Not being a people known for any sort of technological achievements means he’s had little care to even so much as remember they exist.

Putting it short: Nero simply doesn't _care._

“Hiding behind _toys_ , Garlean? Face me like a true warrior and show me how bright your soul _burns!_ ”

Well, not until _this_ one showed up.

And as the Eikon Slayer looses yet another battle-crazed howl, the very air _trembling_ from the might of her swings as her axe cleaves through the first of his precious magitek claws… he rather prefers it had stayed that way.

‘ _A demon. A voidsent. A bloody Eikon itself!’_

She _must_ be, what with her unnatural grey-blue skin accented with scales the same hue as the midnight sky; the horns jutting where ears would normally be to swoop down and trace the curve of her jawline; that long, spiny tail stretching from rear to heels… Hells, the only thing she’s missing is a pair of wings, for the Emperor’s sake!

Another roar echoes about the arena as she pivots on a heel, a move carrying a surprising amount of grace for as much as it's suffused with savage ferocity. Her axe flows as swiftly as if it were constructed of seafoam; a seemingly impossible feat, for the weapon is much the same size as the Eikon Slayer herself is. And yet, with but a single upswing, the brutal implement cleaves through another of his claws with no more resistance than if it were shearing the most delicate of Thavnairian silks.

“These toys won't protect you for long! You'd best prepare yourself!”

A demon.

Sent from the deepest of the Seven Hells to torment him, personally.

Otherworldly heritage is the only possible explanation for this girl’s frightening power, and a mere _girl_ she must be. Despite how overwhelming a presence she carries, her petite stature reminds him more of a young adult than of a woman fully grown. Were she close enough-though he's more than grateful she _isn't_ -her height would only bring her to his chest.

Not that it seems to be affecting her physical prowess in any way. Hells, aside from the rippling muscles lining her exposed arms-each tensing as she utilizes exactly the appropriate ones for each specific movement-he would've thought her daunting strength the product of some forbidden ancient magics. For as much as she appears to be swinging about with reckless abandon, the more he bears witness to the chaos of her battle fury the more he realizes not a single movement is wasted. Her movements flow from one to the next, a dance of precision and graceful ferocity with her axe as the fulcrum to her body's tempo. Not even the weight of her thick leathers and heavy plate seems to slow her down.

“ _HRRRRAGGHH!”_

The Magitek Claws he's spent months designing and perfecting fall by the seconds. It’s laughable really, just how quickly she’s downing them. By the time the halves of the last hit the floor, she's already moved onto the next and then the next even after.

Until no more remain.

And the only thing left else for her to butcher in the room is _him_.

“Enough _toys_ , Garlean!” Her axe cleaves through the last of his claws, it having posed no more threat or tangibility than a paper butterfly. The wickedly long edge of her axehead continues sailing along its downward trajectory until it crashes into the floor with enough raw power that it cracks and splinters about the point of impact.

He can’t help but pale at the sight of it.

Castrum floors are constructed of several-ilm thick Garlean steel. Each slab is solid all the way through, no matter if it’s for a main hall or a simple pathway.

The Eikon Slayer managed to crumple it like a cheap sheet of bronze with but a single blow.

This is the one they're heralding as the Warrior of _Light_? The would be ‘savior’ of Eorzea?

Nero would’ve laughed had he not been stunned silent. Even the gasp that manages to escape from his parted lips does so with not a single sound.

Every monster, every beast, every enemy that’s ever dared oppose him he’s been able to deal with through the incomparable might of his genius alone. Even _Garlond_ had struggled to cope, and the blue-blooded _brat_ had only succeeded where Nero couldn’t because of the gross nepotism that stole from him what should’ve been his by _right_.

He will _not_ stand to allow anything stop him in his quest for the greatness he’s destined for. Not his family, not his poor starting hand in life, and certainly not the shadow of Cid nan bloody Garlond!

But this… this _savage_ … cares naught for his accolades or genius or talent whatsoever. The only tongue she truly knows is the barbaric language of her axe. Everything else is but worthless prose that might as well be gibberish to her.

Only a strength to rival hers is what will force her to bend a knee.

And there's not a chance in all the Hells he can offer that.

Scheming and trickery it is, then. The only thing that will get him out of this is his wits and the fastest plan they can think of to best this crazed demon before him.

Shrill laughter abruptly echoes about the arena. It drowns out the harsh crackling of the electrified floor he so carefully set up to contain her; only now it makes him more trapped in here with her, rather than her with _him_. The flickering, jolting light reflects off her armor and scales like the void flame he assumes she was born in.

“That was barely even a warmup! I do hope you don’t prove to be yet more waste of my time.”

There’s a loud _thunk_ of metal shifting as the Slayer takes a casual pose, reclining against the haft of the axe still embedded into the ruined floor. She faces him with arms crossed about her chest, and the hint of a wild grin peeks out from beneath her low-vision burgeonet. With the last of his poor claws irreparably destroyed, Nero realizes he now has her undivided attention.

Lucky him.

“My dearest apologies, Eikon Slayer.” His tone is smugly wheedling as he mockingly ingratiates himself to her, giving a noncommittal shrug as he does so. The underlying distaste he has for the creature before him in about as subtle as acid chewing through steel. “Had I known you but a child, I would’ve prepared more _‘toys’_ to entertain you with.”

The insult only makes her laugh again, though this one sounds of genuine amusement rather than the unbridled arrogance from before. It strikes him as oddly delicate given how much the rest of her _isn’t_. “Oh! This one thinks he’s funny!”

Nero grimaces, and full well is he glad that his armor-as stifling as the air within in is-obscures from her his expression. The last thing he needs is for her to see just what kind of effect she appears to be having on him. She’d only eat it right up, and she already has enough of an advantage as is.

“Call me small, then, Garlean, but know well enough that I am no child.” She laughs through the words, shaking her head as if she found the thought utterly ridiculous. “It’s clear you’ve never seen a woman of my peoples before. You’d think the rest as infants compared to my size!”

He takes note of the distinctly non-Eorzean accent warping her words. It’s thick, coming from somewhere near or in her throat. Othard? A native Au Ra?

‘ _Why would this foreigner fight on behalf of nation she’s clearly not from?’_ He idly wonders, feeling himself grow more curious about his opponent the more he discovers how little of her he knows; as if she herself were an interesting piece of magitek to deconstruct. It’s not every day that someone capable of hindering the plans of the great Black Wolf himself appears.

Especially when that _someone_ happens to be nothing more than a mere bloodthirsty savage… Though a savage capable of slaying _gods_ , nonetheless.

But before he can form the words to ask, hers are already leaping into the space they would’ve occupied.

“Funny enough, Garlean, with your height I nearly mistook you for a tree!” She giggles, but something in the seemingly innocent sound makes his hair stand on end. A flash of red shines from beneath her helmet’s visor, but vanishes so quick as to make him wonder if he’d imagined it. “Hopefully you won’t take my axe as passively as if you _were_ one. I haven’t had a good fight since I clipped Garuda’s wings.”

If ever a threat sounded as though it were salivating, this was it.

Nero grimaces, half expecting a rivulet of drool to fall out her mouth from the way she says it. As much as he’s still harboring a terribly morbid curiosity over her, the passing seconds only sees his distaste growing all the more. This Slayer is a brute, flitting from battle to battle in endless pursuit of an adrenaline rush.

“Is that why you fight for these Eorzeans? Merely just for the thrill of battle?” He asks, careful to keep his voice aloof, if not a little impatient. “I had been wondering how a native of Othard became a champion for this nation. I’m almost disappointed it’s for something so… ignoble.”

He’d expected another laugh.

It doesn’t come, instead supplanted by a more innocuous, melodious hum. “Oh?”

The Slayer then reaches up to remove the burgeonet, careful to slide it out from her intrusive horns… and _over_ them as well, as an additional pair-short, almost nubby-are revealed in the helmet’s absence. They rise a few inches above her temples, amidst her hairline, and arch backward to follow along the curve of her skull. The silvery-blue of her hair-done up in a thickly woven braid that’d been piled high underneath her helmet-sharply contrasts with the deep raven-hue of those horns, and especially so with her almost slate-colored skin.

She gives her head a gentle shake, to which the plait gracefully slides down to drape over her shoulder. It’s only then that the purple feathers intermittently woven within are revealed to him, the low light of the arena casting ominous shadows about them. He would’ve said the style only reinforces that oddly girlish appearances of hers...

Had he not finally gotten a glimpse of her unobscured eyes.

Limbal rings practically _glowing_ with a crimson remarkably similar to his favorite-maybe even the same-encircle irises deeper than the deepest abyss. The contrast of their sharp and fiery red against such darkness can only be described as otherworldly.

Gates to hell. Gates to the void.

“Is seeking glory so ‘ignoble’, Garlean?” The Slayer speaks low, her voice husky in a way that sounds almost thoughtful. “Only in battle can our souls truly ignite. Only then can we become _great_.”

Nero stands, of all things, _surprised_. Her words strike him in a way he had not at all expected, especially not from such a barbaric brute. They hit… uncomfortably close to home, the pursuit of greatness all too known to him. Who is he to deny another the very same raison d’etre he himself follows?

Well, when it involves him being cut down in ends to that means, he supposes he sure as hell can.

“How very barbaric.” He sighs in distaste, though it seemingly has no effect on her oddly jovial disposition. “Are the _Eikons_ not enough to sate your barbaric urges? Or does the beast now thirst for the blood of man?”

The Slayer’s lips twist in a wolfish grin, and the whites of what he sees now are beast-sharp incisors create a frightening contrast against the dusky purple of her lips. Those lips stretch wide as her grin grows to contort the rest of her features. Everything from the scales on her cheekbones to those on the bridge of her nose wrinkle in its wake, and soon the edges of her eyes follow in suit.

Though it does nothing to diminish the sinister light taking hold within them. Those crimson rings glow with the red of blood.

No. Blood _lust_.

She truly looks more beastwoman than not.

“Oh? Do you not want to fight me, Garlean?” Her grin widens all the more, so utterly suffused with contempt as to make his blood boil. “Are you afraid to face someone you can’t simply whip into submission? When was the last time you had a battle that made your blood _sing_ ? That made your soul _burn_?”

Insult sears through his chest, indignation rising from the gall of this girl. How _dare_ she imply him a coward. He has more talent and genius in his little finger than she does in her entire body… disregarding its rather tiny stature.

He scoffs aloud, though the noise only makes the edges of her eyes crinkle in amusement ever more so. “Bold of you to think you deserving of facing a Tribunus in combat. A mere savage like you deserves no better than being dumped in the ceruleum tanks.”

“Words, words, words.” She clicks her tongue, very much conveying the sentiment of a disappointed mother. “They make for a poor shield, you know. Throw about your titles all you wish, they are meaningless to me.”

Of course. As if this brute would care anything about rank and file. The only words she'll listen to are the ones that have to be beaten into her.

The Slayer then sighs, tossing her hands up in a shrug as if to say the situation couldn't be helped. “Are you going to fight me, or are all you purebloods so cowardly? Even the white-armored one refused to fight me on equal footing!”

‘... _Livia’_ Though he held no affection for her-the nasty harpy that she was-Nero more than knows her loss will hit not just the XIVth hard, but the Empire itself. Sas Junius was cruel, undeniably so, but damn if she didn’t get results.

“Hid inside that magitek toy of hers until I tore her out of it, she did. No wonder, seeing how quickly she fell soon after. You’d think a woman so fond of inflicting pain on others would’ve been able to take more of it herself…” Her voice trails off in some mock sense of thoughtfulness, and she cocks her head to the side with eyes closed as if to accentuate the fact. The wicked smirk still contorting her features tells Nero all he needs to know about how she truly feels about the Tribunus Angusticlavius’ fate.

Contempt.

“She has- _had_ a name, you know.” He hisses through grit teeth. Though his helmet prevents her from seeing just how much her blatant disrespect has riled him up so, it is more than obvious from the bite of his tongue.

It only makes her laugh, a barking, arrogant sound made as she tosses her head back. “Oh! I’m sure she did! Not that she fought long or well enough for me to remember it, though.”

Nero growls, about to demand this wench show more respect for a woman that had clearly been her better only fo-

The click of a tongue. “Not like that Roegadyn conscript at Cape Westwind… If only he’d lived long enough to give me his. Now _he_ was worth remembering.”

 _That_ one hurt. Rhitahtyn, though always quick to disagree with Nero’s methods, had been a good man. Not only a strategic mastermind, he’d been loyal to a fault, just as eager to give his life for the Empire as any true-blooded Garlean. He deserved a better death than being at the mercy of this _demon_.

“It was Rhitahtyn, you _savage_. Rhitahtyn sas Arvina.” Nero snarls at her, the voice modulator in his helmet twisting the worlds to a barely intelligible, garbled stream of noise.

She doesn’t seem to notice his rapidly growing aggression. The grin has fallen from her face, and this time she truly _does_ look thoughtful, not at all conveying the same sense of mockery as when she’d been discussing Livia. “Rhitahtyn… sas Arvina…”

Her eyes drift down to the floor as she idly observes the cracked steel in thought. “He fought well… Not long, but well…”

Those limbal rings flash as she quickly snaps her gaze back to meet his, or where his would be had they not been obscured by his helmet. She gives a single nod, graciously. “Thank you, Garlean. I shall remember his name well.”

The way she says it is entirely genuine, just as the expression on her face is one of solid resolve.

Then, as abruptly as it disappeared, that wolfish grin returns. The one that has her looking at him as more prey than equal foe. “Tell me, will your name be one to remember as well?”

Will it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to chat or ask about headcanons/give me writing prompts, hit me up at https://silversiren1101.tumblr.com/ I love talking with you all


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mistake.
> 
> The first one in the line of many leading to his downfall that fateful night. The one from whence there was no return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been a long time since I've updated. Sorry about that! My fiance and I are in the process of buying our first house (!) so I've been super busy recently.
> 
> Hope you enjoy what I've cooked up for you! 
> 
> Next chapter is all action :)

“Tell me, will your name be one to remember as well?”

Will it?

Nero knows exactly how this woman fights,knows exactly how _brutal_ it is. Each swing of her axe carries with it enough overwhelming might to fell _gods._ He’s seen it in person, spying from afar as she willingly charged into the Eikons’ dens with that wild grin on her face and maddened glint in her eyes; as if they were no more threatening than some common man. Those battles had taken almost everything from her, and yet she fought each with such euphoria that afterward, she looked nothing short of _blissed_.

Even before he met her in person, exchanged words with her, stood before her as he is now, Nero had long come to the conclusion that the Eikon Slayer is naught but a degenerate savage that gets off on the thrill of violent, bloody combat.

But a savage that may as well kill him this very night.

“I suppose it won’t be, then.” Her voice abruptly cuts through the silence, more sighed aloud than spoken. The lack of an immediate response from him has clearly left her impatient. Like a child who hasn’t learned the benefits of delayed gratification.

‘ _Damn this woman. Can’t a man have time to think?’_ He groans within, careful to keep the actual sound from emerging. She’d only use it to antagonize him further.

Another sigh echoes about the arena before he can give her the answer she longs for. This time as she gives her head a lazy shake, her foot an idle tap. “You can run if you wish, since you seem so unwilling to actually fight me.”

“Bite your tongue, _worm_ .” He keeps the growl growing in the back of his throat only _just_ in check. His nerves will be run through by the time the night is over. “Lest you mistake preparation for hesitation.”

She merely shrugs, a rather _bored_ expression contorting her features. “You wouldn’t be the first to take up the offer, is all.”

The boredom shifts, then, subtly turning into an expression all too familiar to a man like himself: poorly restrained egotism.

“Not many are brave enough to face a Dotharl warrior in combat. We are as unmatched as we are unchallenged.” The grin stretching across her face screams a sense of narcissism at whatever nonsense title she’s claiming to be.

He doesn’t know who or what a ‘ _Dotharl’_ is, though he’s not so arrogant as to discount… whatever… it is exactly. If being a ‘ _Dotharl’_ is the source of her seemingly bottomless strength then that’s plenty reason to be wary enough. Still, it takes everything to hold back the snarl threatening to tear from his throat at her insult. Giving in to the clear attempt to goad him would only give her exactly what she so desires: a bloodbath.

But he most definitely knows that while he can prolong the inevitable, he most certainly won’t be getting out of this without a fight, period. One that’ll leave him just as bloodied and broken as she would be if he managed to win. The only type of victory he can hope for here is a pyrrhic one, and that's only if he can manage _that_ much. At the very least, he needs to keep her busy long enough for Gaius to get Ultima primed and ready.

Not even a monster like this can stand against his precious Ultima, his magnum opus.

Only a _ready_ Ultima, that is. It’s just the same as any other machine when dormant: scrap metal waiting to be smashed. The same as his now mangled Claws.

So he will give Gaius time. Time to ready the weapon he put his heart and soul and blood and tears into to finally, _finally_ earn him the respect and recognition he’s deserved since day one. Work that’s all due to _him_ , not Garlond or his legacy or _anyone else!_

If this doesn’t make van Baelsar so much as acknowledge him, then…

That's not to say he's not going to try. Nero tol Scaeva will never offer his neck in submission to a crazed savage like _this_. His pride would never suffer it. He merely needs more time, as much as it seems to be in short supply. The more information he can gather in the few precious minutes he has left, he can use to craft a strategy specifically designed to deal with this demon before him.

Maybe what foreign title she claimed to be- _'Dotharl?’_ -will give him some insight into how exactly this woman works.

It’s a good enough lead as any.

He crosses his arms, a dampened clinking sounding from metal on metal as his armor shifts. The pose he takes is relaxed, suggesting that he’s in no hurry to get this started so soon. Nor that he’s eager to run.

“A ‘ _dosch-ral’_?” He purposely mispronounces the term he so clearly heard, hoping it strikes a nerve. If she can attempt to rile him up, so can he to her. Anything to make her spill more than she’d otherwise been willing to share. “You’ll have to enlighten me. Is that what they call blood-crazed wenches over in Othard?”

While the crimson of the Slayer’s eyes flashes with the undeniable heat of fury at his insult, the wicked grin across her lips only spreads all the wider. She lets her eyes slide closed, but not before he sees those red rings flick upward for a half-second in a contemptuous roll. Her head cocks to the side shortly after alongside a sharp exhale of mocking amusement.

The whole display says she more pities him for his ignorance than is offended by it. All it does is make him seethe. This woman will pay for her insolence soon enough.

“Ah, now that explains it.” She raises a fist to her lips, musing to herself from beneath her knuckles. The words are spoken more to herself than intended for him, though he hears them all the same. “The lamb does not know the wolf for its fangs.”

A quiet puff of amusement escapes through her fingers right after. The arrogance makes him desire nothing more than to forcibly rid her of it much the same way a Garlean mother would spank an unruly child.

...If only he physically _could_. He has no doubt that just making a jest of the topic would result in getting his arms ripped off as if he were no more than a cast-aside children’s doll.

His jaw tenses, gritting forcefully as the Slayer finally redirects her attention back to him once more. Those unnerving eyes open to a narrowed smugness, and she beams at him like he’s the most innocent, adorable cretin in all the world.

His knuckles crack from the force with which they clench.

Agonizingly saccharine, her voice coos out to him in a tone as if she were speaking to someone _simple_. “It’s _‘dotharl’,_ my cowardly Imperial friend.”

Worse, she struggles not to laugh through her own words as she continues. “Need I teach you to say it correctly? By the time we’re finished, you’ll remember it more than your own nameday, I’m sure.”

Fury. It scorches white-hot through his chest, beneath the armor that’s thankfully making him appear unaffected. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, though, he can’t deny he set himself up for this. The mispronunciation-as purposeful as it was-has only made him appear woefully simple rather than the callously aloof he’d intended.

A just reward for stooping down to her level, anyhow.

‘ _Don’t let her get to you.’_ If only doing so were as easy as merely thinking it. Resisting the urge to snap at her-to snap _her neck_ -only grows more impossible with each passing instance of disrespect.

The only thing keeping him grounded is the knowledge that she’ll be getting her comeuppance before the night is through. If not from him, then from Gaiu-no, from his beloved _Ultima_ , and that’s just as good as if it had come from Nero directly.

But Gaius still needs time.

“And? What exactly is a ‘ _Dotharl?’_ ” Nero makes a point to cover the frustration in his voice with impatience instead, tinged with just a hint of boredom, too. “I care as much for your meaningless titles just as you do ours.”

The Slayer’s laughter this time is anything _but_ subtle. It echoes about the arena, an uproarious racket suffused with contemptuous amusement. Her head is thrown back as it explodes out her chest, and she roars her mirth up into the sky. “‘ _Meaningless’_ , he says!”

She continues on for seconds more, stretching on to nearly half a minute before finally regaining her composure. The back of a furred vambrace catches the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes as she moves to rub them away, before daring to mock him once more. “I envy you, you know! Learning of the might of the Dotharl for the first time! You’ll be laughing at your words later just as I am now...”

A wicked grin abruptly cuts across her face, the mirth taking on a more predatory nature.

“...If you manage to survive, that is.”

Nero is the one rolling his eyes this time, having now become the impatient one himself. He gestures at her brusquely-”Emperor, get on with it already!”-before crossing his arms and rocking back to recline on a heel. The flat of his boot taps once upon the ground before he catches himself. “What are you then? Wench as I suspected? War slave? Only kept around to kill and main on command?”

No new laughter comes, and the echoes of the previous have long since died out. She looses a humored exhale instead, nostril flaring as she shoots him a particularly grating simper. Her smug eyes hold his as a single finger curled beneath his chin.

The answer he seeks, as much as it comes out through that ingratiatingly warm grin of hers, makes his blood run _cold_.

“I am of the ‘ _undying_ ’, Imperial, the greatest of all Nhaama’s children. We are the only denizens of the steppe to whom death is meaningless. Kill me-” She chuckles, eyes fluttering as her grin widens to bare her teeth. “-if you _can_ , that is-and I will merely return anew.”

A beat of silence drops.

And then another.

‘... _Un...dy-’_ His mind doesn’t let him finish the thought. He’s heard her wrong. Clearly. She’s not _that_ simple, savage as she is. Unless… Unless she really _is_ claimed to be _immor-_

No.

That's just... that’s just _absurd._ She may be crazy, completely and utterly mad, but not like _that_.

But at what she truly _had_ said… he struggles to fill in the blank. No logical substitution comes, leaving nothing but the impossible.

The silence between them solidifies so thick as to blunt a knife. She merely beams at him all the while with that devilish grin, drinking in the tension while he struggles in all his supposed genius to conjure up a simple word.

A word he innately knows for fact he hadn’t misheard her speak at all. That this girl truly _had_ claimed the impossible.

He can’t help it. As soon as he entertains the thought, a bark of exasperated laughter tears from his lungs. “You… you must be joking. You seriously mean to say you are _immortal_?! You really are mad!”

A mistake.

The first one in the line of many leading to his downfall that fateful night. The one from whence there was no return.

All at once, the amused expression falls from the Slayer’s face as if he’d physically slapped it away. Her lips press together tightly, nose lifting and eyes narrowing in unparalleled fury. A red glint shines for but a second from deep beneath the surface of those inky irises; an effect eerily similar to the activation sequences of his Allagan automatons. Enough so, that a bolt of panic arcs through his chest as he wonders whether this woman truly is flesh and blood at all.

And not some more advanced version of Ultima waiting down, down below… both uniquely capable of usurping the might of Eikons.

Both created with the task of consuming _gods._

A beep sounds in his helmet, though it goes unnoticed in wake of her rising anxiety.

She levels that once-neutral gaze at him, now so sharply focused as to look almost lifeless. ‘ _Robotic_.’ The voice of worry chimes in, only serving to draw more parallels to the idea that this demon is more weapon than person.

Her voice evokes the same dark fears, as she speaks then so low and even as to sound emotionless. Empty. None of her biting mockery or scathing arrogance remains, leaving only cold animosity.

“Do you mock our beliefs, Garlean?”

His helmet beeps again, or has it been beeping this whole time? A warning. The onboard diagnostics have detected something he needs to be warned of.

It continues going unheard.

The oppressive aura radiating off the Slayer overrides anything else that could possibly get his attention. It just about stops his heart cold, freezing the blood in his veins to ice in suit. Physically small she may be, the shadow she casts across the arena seems to grow before his very eyes. Large and larger it stretches, a pall shrouding him in such a way that it feels as though he’s standing beneath the silhouette of crashing Dalamud once more.

And it's only a matter of time until what lies slumbering within breaks free.

Tinny, metallic, an automated voice sounds in his ear. “Rising aether levels nearing critical. Evacuation recommended.”

He sees it then, the flashing light of warning blinking on his helmet’s visual interface. On and off. On and off. A meter has appeared on the right side of the screen displaying a bar filled almost at maximum.

Danger.

He'd meant to dig his heels in, insult the girl more and shake her concentration such that he may have hope to best her in battle.

But her hateful aura alone pierces his armor as lance through his breast.

For maybe the first in Nero’s life, words have failed him. The only thing that comes to his tongue is the bitter taste of _fear_.

A horrible screech jerks him from the panic his mind’s slipped to, metal on metal. The cacophonous noise echoes about the arena as the Slayer wrenches her axe free from the warped steel floor. It takes by a single motion to work it free, and only another more to swing the brutal implement upward to rest upon her shoulder. She does it all with such ease as to suggest the weapon weighs no more than a hollow tube of bronze.

Impossible, he knows, as the slab of metal forming the head must weigh tens of ponzes alone given the damage it's capable of.

Damage he's about to become intimately acquainted with.

The Slayer sighs then, a dramatic sound suffused with exhaustion, and the oppressive aura abruptly shatters like glass. It’s only now his breath returns to him, a strangled gasp sounding as air rushes down his throat. He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath. Her very presence had wrung the oxygen from his lungs.

“I… _tire_ … of words.” She more exhales the words than speaks them fully. A weariness has crept into her voice. Disappointment, even. “You’d best prepare yourself, my nameless adversary, for I have more important quarry than you this evening.”

He hears the words, _sees_ her lips move to breath them to life. Yet movement evades him still. The will to ready his limbs just doesn’t come, even as her stifling aura has all but waned completely.

Another noise sounds as she shifts the weight of her axe slightly, the metal of the head clinking against a pauldron.

“Nor have you earned a shred of the mercy I’m capable of.”

She’s on him before he even realizes it.

One moment he’d been meeting her gaze from several yalms away, the next the tips of her horns threaten to scrape the front of his helmet.

His world becomes nothing but those red-ringed, hellish eyes as the Slayer leaps at him, axe poised and ready to strike. She’d closed the distance between them with such howling speed he’d first feared it’d been Garuda closing in upon him, somehow having clawed herself free of her Ultima prison. Even the way the air swirls about the woman and her axe churns with a fury as can only be rivaled by none other _but_ The Lady of the Vortex. It seems to suck at his feet, even, pulling at his midsection as though a vacuum’s been created from her sheer strength alone warping the very air between them.

He can’t move.

Those eyes of hers have him frozen beneath their merciless gaze. The limbal rings glow with all the fires of each the Seven Hells, and the inky pools they encircle seem deep as portals to the seventh most itself. Pinpricks of red light, radiating _bloodlust_ , glimmer from deep within their centers. A hint to the firestorm blazing wild and unrestrained within her.

It has him utterly paralyzed. Death herself has her scythe pressed up into his neck, curdling his blood and locking him in place as her messenger seals the deal and banishes him to hell with one fell strike.

He hears the rush of her axe without consciously seeing it. It’s only on instinct alone that spurs him to jump backward in time, and only just barely at that. The steel floor erupts into bits of shrapnel as her axe hits the ground where his feet had been but a moment before. It quite literally _explodes_ , almost as if the Lord of Crags has joined Garuda in her freedom and pursuit of vengeance.

It’s not until Nero’s airborne, leaping backward to safety, that conscious thought readily returns. A slew of curses flies to his lips as he realizes just how closely he’d come to being turned into _halves_. That very first hit would’ve ended it all.

‘ _Focus! Your wits are the only thing you have over this brute!’_

If only it were so easy.

Even as he lands a few yalms away, boots skidding across the floor, he still feels too uncomfortably close to her. Hells, just being in the same room as this woman feels claustrophobic, like being locked in a cage with a man-eating dragon.

As if sensing his flustered panic, she barks a single laugh at him, mocking and bitter. “Oh! Would you have referred me to wait until you said ‘ _go_ ’?”

His synapses awake all at once, rage shaking the panic from him surely as the sun rises.

“Don't you _dare_ mock me, savage!” He snarls at her, pointing an accusing finger in her direction even as he struggles to control the shaking in his limbs lest she mistake it for trembling. For it’s born as much from the fear as it is from his newfound fury.

“Hah! More words. You want me to respect you?” The look on her face, a vicious scowl, says she’s anything but amused now. If anything, all this stalling has made her aggressively impatient, and her bloodthirst has become too much to contain. “I’d like to see you make me.”

Their fight has been delayed long enough.

Nero grunts, gritting his teeth as he forces himself to get a grip. His taunting had the opposite effect he’d intended, instead riling her into a frenzy that will only aid her in combat instead of rattling her focus.

There’s no helping it now. The only thing left is to ready himself.

It’s going to take one hell of a plan to best her, but hells if he’s going to bare his neck and let the axe come down. And _hells_ if he’s going to step aside and let her destroy the culmination of his life’s work. He’s put his very heart and soul into Ultima, his life’s ultimate creation.

And he’ll protect it just as a parent would their precious child.

Nero throws a hand skyward, snapping his fingers up at the ceiling. A short beep sounds from the magitek receiver built into his gauntlet, and the anti-gravity mechanism deactivates not a second after. Yet another result of his genius: a portable recreation of the _Levitate_ spell.

The rapidly approaching sound of rushing air sounds from above, almost growing to ear-splitting volume until-

Mjolnir strikes the floor with enough force that the entire arena shakes. The custom-built gunhammer lands haft-up at his feet, an undeniably gorgeous weapon crafted will all the finesse and care that her crude axe had _not_ been. He grabs it without hesitation, snapping it up into the air and brandishing it at the Eikon Slayer in a way that leaves no room for interpretation.

“It’s time you learn your place, _savage_! I am Nero tol Scaeva and you _will_ remember it!”

A wide grin splits across her face, predatory and brimming with just barely contained battle fury. Fire yet burns in those terrible eyes, as brightly as they seem to shine.

“Enough words then, _Nero_ -” the sound of his name of her tongue sounds _off_ , her thick accent bastardizing it in a way that only infuriates him even more “-come! It’s time to prove whose soul burns brightest!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to chat or ask about headcanons/give me writing prompts, hit me up at https://silversiren1101.tumblr.com/ I love talking with you all


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